The Last Delivery
by JLockridge
Summary: The story of Fallout: New Vegas in a narrative form.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

_War. War never changes._

_When atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great, underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across ruins of the old world to build new societies, establish new villages, form new tribes._

_As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, dedicated to old-world values of democracy and the rule of law. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory and wealth, in the dry and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the warheads that had scorched the rest of the world, and a great wall spanning the Colorado River._

_The NCR mobilized its army and set it east to occupy the Hoover Dam, and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes: Caesar's Legion._

_Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam - just barely - against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the river, they gathered strength. Campfires burned, training drums beat._

_Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the control of its mysterious overseer, Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots._

_You are a courier, hired by the Mojave Express, to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip. What seemed like a simple delivery job has taken a turn…for the worse._

– Ron the Narrator, Fallout: New Vegas intro

There is only darkness.

A burlap sack covers my face and ropes bind my arms and legs. My ankles and wrists have been sore for longer than I care to think about, burns from the rope digging into the flesh from my attempts to loosen them. But it's no use. Whoever tied these knots knew what they were doing. I might have appreciated the skill if I weren't the one tied up at the moment.

It was supposed to be a simple delivery. From California to New Vegas, just a single poker chip. That's a long way to travel for a bit of shine, but I've had worse deliveries. At least this one paid. I should have known, though. Anybody willing to pay as many caps as I was getting was up to no good. _Instincts are wearing thin, old man._ Thirty, pushing thirty one. I used to wonder how many years I had left in this game. Being a courier wears on you, if you can survive it. Most don't.

The Wasteland is a fucking pool of lowlifes, thieves, and murderers. People will shoot you for the clothes on your back, so you better believe me when I tell you they'll gut you for a package that might be worth a few caps. I told myself it was a temporary gig at first, just a means to an end. Save up a few caps, go settle down somewhere. Just one more delivery, I kept telling myself. Just enough to get on your feet.

Almost nine years I've been doing this. When I stop to think about it now, I guess a part of always knew I never meant to give it up. Travel the world, all expenses paid, like some pre-War contest brochure. There's a kind of glory to it, the thrill of survival and living off the land. The caps certainly didn't hurt either.

_Just one more delivery._ Looks like I was right this time. I hear a lighter sparking and I wonder if that's how I'll be done in, lit on fire and left to burn. Painful, but effective. No evidence. Not that anybody would come looking for me and whoever the package belonged to wouldn't know where to start. Five hundred miles of sand and rocks, anything could have happened. Anything _is_ happening.

I was knocked out cold when I stopped to take a piss break. Been awake long enough now to know that I'm dealing with more than one person. Long enough to hear the grave being dug. I hear voices and I lay still, hoping they'll leave if I haven't seen their faces. Maybe it's just thieves. A man can pray, can't he?

"You got what you were after, so pay up." Sounds like a mercenary. Deep voice, impatient. Maybe I'll luck out yet. Mercs don't kill unless they're paid to.

"You're cryin' in the rain, pally," comes the response. When the other voice doesn't speak up, I assume this is the guy in charge. I tug at my restraints as they talk, thinking they're too preoccupied to notice.

"Guess who's waking up over here?" A third voice calls out from the same direction I'd just heard a shovel hit the ground. Shit. The sac is pulled from my face and I can see my kidnappers clearly now. Three of them, two dressed almost like Fiends and another in a strange, checkered suit, smoking a cigarette. So at least I'm not being set on fire. Silver linings.

"Time to cash out." The second voice I'd heard, coming from the checkered suit.

"Would you get it over with already?" First voice, coming from a dark skinned man.

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"

Khans, as in Great Khans? There goes my hope. I don't know much about 'em, but what I do know is enough to stay clear of them. Checkered Suit drops the smoke and puts it out with his foot, walking towards me. I think I see pity in his eyes, which is strange. I've seen all sorts, but the ones who tie you up, steal from you, the ones who want to kill you, they don't generally care. Nine times out of ten, greed compels them to do what they do. Pity is a luxury. He pulls out the shiny chip, the one that's heavier than any casino chip I've handled and that shines with a metallic gleam, and flashes it in front of my face.

"You've made your last delivery, kid." He slides the chip back into the pocket of his coat, pulling out something else in its place that I can't quite see. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."

Jesus, but does he like to hear himself talk. In spite of that, I can tell he means it. When he says sorry, I believe him. Then I see the gun in his hand, a 9mm with a custom grip, and I stop giving a shit about his apologies. For the first time in a long time, I feel fear. A cold, piercing grip around my heart that freezes me solid. _So this is it,_ I think. _After everything, it ends like this. Well fuck you too._

"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck." I tell myself to run, but I remember the ropes around my ankles. I can't move. Could crawl, but what's the point? Die with dignity. Dignity, right. I'll just ignore the stain on the crotch of my pants. "Truth is... game was rigged from the start."

I hear the explosion of the barrel as he pulls the trigger, muzzle flashing inches from my eyes and blinding me. There's no pain, just the burst of light and then... nothing.


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

**Ain't That a Kick in the Head**

The first thing I'm aware of is the pain, a crushing pressure in my temples that makes me want to scream. Worse than any hangover and trust me, I've had some rough nights before. I don't cry easy, but as I open my eyes I can feel them watering up. I think back, recalling the last few moments I remember. What I assumed had been the last moments of my life.

I remember the flash of the muzzle, that pompous dick in the black and white checkered suit talking too much. I should be dead.

"You're awake. How about that." A voice sounds off from my left, sounding more curious than concerned. I try to sit up and look at him, but the second I move my vision blurs and a wave of nausea rocks me. I almost fall, vertigo rushing through me as I lose my balance and tip over. "Woah," the stranger says as he reaches out for my shoulder at once, setting me back up. "Easy there, easy." He doesn't let go until I'm stable enough to sit on my own and I'm grateful for that.

I see now that I'm sitting on a bed. No, wait. It's.. a surgical bed. My peripheral gaze makes out what appears to be a makeshift operating room. A small table sits nearby, medical instruments shining with fresh sterilization. I wonder if maybe the guy who took me had been a bad shot, only grazing me. In retrospect, it's always interesting to see which of your instincts kick in first.

After being kidnapped, shot in the head, and waking up in a strange room, I would have thought my gut would have made me hone in on potential weapons or routes of escape. But no, it's the medical training, beaten into me until it becomes reflex. A gun might be handy for a tough spot, but knowing how to patch yourself up is worth more than any bullet, especially for a courier. As my gaze passes over the instruments, I'm naming and cataloging them. An image of the operation they were used for begins to grow in my mind like connecting pieces of a puzzle.

I finally look at the stranger, an old man with graying hair and a wrinkled, caring face that you associate with grandpas. Dressed like a rancher, there are faded blood stains on his overalls.

"How long was I out?" I ask, rubbing my palm against my forehead in an effort to soothe the ache.

"You been out cold a couple of days now," he replies, sitting back in a battered wooden chair. "Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings."

"I'm fine," I assure him, but the gaze he shoots me tells me he knows better. My fingers brush over a scar on the left side of my temple, a tiny circular shape. Not a graze then.

"Let's see what the damage is," he says, ignoring me. He bends over to pick something up and I flinch instinctively, assuming the worst. But it's just an old Reflecton. "How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"Jay," I reply, though it takes me a few seconds. The throbbing in my head is fading, but it's still difficult to focus.

"Huh," the old man says as he eyes me. "Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's your name, that's your name." I don't have a reply for that, staring blankly at him instead. The hell is that supposed to mean, anyways? What's wrong with my name? This old man needs to learn some bedside manners. "I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."

We go through the motions. Doc Mitchell is a decent enough doctor, putting me through a physical examination to make sure all my faculties are in order. It's an extensive exam, measuring my reflexes, muscle strength, and even my IQ, all until he's satisfied than I can walk out the door without falling over. As the tests progress, I start to ask him a few questions about himself. A part of me knows I'm just trying to delay the inevitable.

"II grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war," he explains. History isn't my strong suit, but I know that long before nuclear rage rained down from the heavens to create the fucked up paradise you see today, there had been massive underground facilities called Vaults. Doc ain't the first I've met to come from one, so they must have done their job decent enough. The purpose of them seemed clear enough anyways, creating self-sustaining societies to carry on the human race. Not sure who made them, but big pat on the back for those who did.

"After that, was a traveling doctor for a spell," he continues as he checks my blood pressure. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Most folks out here ain't educated, so people with medical know-how are hard to come by. Found that I could help a lot of people with what I knew, and that was all right with me." He seems like the type, too. A lot of the doctors these days are little more than hacks, throwing bandages on bullet wounds to make a few caps. Doc's a good man, I come to realize. Even if he is a bit of a smartass. But hell if I wouldn't be at his age too.

"So what brought you to Goodsprings?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Eventually, I went back and married my childhood sweetheart and that was the end of my traveling days. Didn't miss it none then. Still don't." I nod silently, not asking the obvious question. There's no ring on his finger now, no wife to be seen. The house we're in is rustic, simple, lacking the finer points a woman might make. He can sense the unasked question regardless, averting his gaze as he explains.

"When folks spend their lives in isolation, sometimes that ain't the best of things for learning to fight off germs." There's a condition for that, I've heard. The immune system goes through a shock when introduced into a new environment. Never seen it myself, but I know it's not a pretty end. "We was going to California, but Goodsprings was as far as we got. After she passed, wasn't no reason to keep going."

I understand the sentiment. He stayed here to keep close to her.

"Seems to me you're the luckiest son-of-a-gun in New Vegas," he finally comments, tucking a tool into his pocket. I slip off the bed, stretching my arms and legs. But we're not quite done yet.

One last test to make sure I'm stable. Brain damage is a funny thing, he explains to me. There could be damage to areas of my brain that could present psychological issues. I've never put much stock into this kind of stuff, because it seems a little too much like the ones who do are always talking out of their asses. But the Doc's been good to me, so I choose to indulge him.

Taking a seat on the torn and faded couch, he takes his own in a leather chair. The migraine is gone now, only the stiffness of my muscles remaining.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, see if all your dogs are still barking. I'll say a word and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind." I nod my understanding. "Dog," he begins.

"Feed," I reply instantly.

"House," he continues.

"Investment."

"Night."

"Sleep."

"Bandit."

"Reasonable." Really. Most of them are just folks looking to get by, I've found. Pay them off and you won't have much trouble. Still, I notice him raising an eyebrow at me.

"Light."

"Torch."

"Mother."

"Human shield," I say before I can stop myself.

There's an awkward pause. I can't tell if he's afraid or concerned. It doesn't matter. The only thing I see is a memory I've done my best to bury. Snapshots on the album that is my life. A shopping trip, just another day. She's promised me Sugar Bombs if I behave, my favorite cereal. But as we're checking out, a man bursts in with a shotgun. Another victim of the Wastelands, driven to unspeakable crimes just to survive. When the NCR grunts show up, he reaches out for her, dragging her in front of him. I remember watching the soldiers eyes go wide with horror, but by then it's too late. The triggers have been pulled and my mother's body spasms as each bullet pierces her.

Doc brings me back to reality, talking softly again as I force myself to look at him. "Sometimes when you give tests like this, you learn more than you was hoping for, and I reckon that ain't always the best thing." His pencil makes a few swift marks on a clipboard. "Well, that's all she wrote. Let's get you out of here."

As we make our way to the door, he hands me a few things.

"Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this," he says as he hands me a large wristband with a touchscreen interface. I recognize it as a Pip-Boy, a standard issue piece of tech for the Vaults. From what I know, the PIP stands for Personal Information Processor. It's basically a small computer, capable of transferring information to and from holodisks. As I play around with it, I also find functions for a radio, a light, and a journal.

"Thanks, Doc. I like it."

"Ain't much use to me now," he explains, shrugging it off. "But you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you." I nod again, knowing he's referring to his wife. He hands me a bag. "One of the townsfolk dropped this off. Said they found it near where Victor found you, and guessed it might be yours."

I dig through it, checking to make sure what I was carrying was still in there. A few stimpacks, some bobby pins, a handful of caps, and my 9mm pistol.

"And put this on, too, so the locals don't pick on you for lacking modesty," he says, handing me a folded up Vault suit. As I put it on, he continues. "Never was much my style anyway. You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave."

Victor. I memorize the name instantly. Metal could mean any number of things: android, robot, or even just some guy in metal armor. Whoever he is, I'm sure he won't be hard to find.

Doc offers me a reassuring smile. "Anyway, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I'll fix you up. But try not to get killed anymore." In spite of myself, I laugh just a little.

"You know I have to ask," I say at length, stuffing a bullet into the chamber of the gun before strapping it onto my hip. "Do you know anything about the man that shot me?"

There is no rule of law in the Wastelands. When someone wrongs you, it's on you to mete out justice as you see fit. A few factions have tried to institute their own system of checks and balances, but their influence never seems to spread far. Too many people enjoy the status quo, an easy anarchy where only the strong survive. The New California Republic, a melting pot of an army with no real standards, is trying to do the same now. For all the good it's doing.

From what I've heard in my travels, they've spread themselves too thin. Occupying Hoover Dam, trying to tax their territory, instituting real laws, it's too much for anybody. Too many of their supply lines run unprotected, bandits and raiders and even the Legion chipping away at them slowly. And even if you're a citizen, good luck getting anything out of them. Their "protection" amounts to jack squat. They'll tell you they've got bigger problems, though in truth I've not seen any evidence of it. Corrupt sonuvabitches, is all they are. Clinging to the Old World values of democracy while hiding behind a gun.

"I didn't see him or the men with him. You might ask around town, though. Could be someone saw which way they was headed," Doc answers. "Your best bet would probably be Trudy, the bartender at the saloon up the road. If anyone saw anything, she'd know about it."

"What can you tell me about the one who rescued me?" If he was there, he might have seen something too. I'll need leads if I'm going to track down that ass in the cheap suit.

"That'd be Victor. Curious fella. Sort of odd. And I don't just mean 'cause he's a robot," he adds. Robot then. Strange, most robots don't do anything beyond self defense without prior programming. "I couldn't tell you much about him. He's real friendly, don't get me wrong. You just get the sense that ain't the whole picture. Just a feeling." And I trust that feeling, trust Doc Mitchell in a way I haven't trusted in too long. The old doctor's been around the block more than a few times, so if he says something is up, then I'm going to rely on his intuition.

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc," I offer as I extend my hand.

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for."

Victor. Trudy. Sunny Smiles. I've got leads and I've got my gun. Most would count themselves lucky and call it a day, but I'm not the kind to let things stand. Those Khans and that suit, whoever they are, I'm coming for them. I'm a courier after all, and I have to get that package back.


End file.
